Cannibals
by Jabot Tullehaute
Summary: Future AU, Gaara works as an escort for High Fantastical, a semi-legal and stigmatized virtual-reality prostitution company. He's been an active employee there for three uneventful years, until he finds himself at the centre of an assassination plot with no explanation. Even further, he realizes that two of his regular clients have fallen for him. Sasuke/Gaara/Itachi


Maybe he would like the room if it was less gaudy in its self-indulgence. The richness of it nearly makes him physically sick. Reds and golds strewn about so lavishly, like the programmers expected the Emperor himself to retract his stance on simulated living and claim this place for his own. With its pompously elegant atmosphere perpetuated by soft ambient lighting and a loop of cultured koto music with shakuhachi accompaniment, the Emperor would find himself very at home. But this boy thinks its ridiculous and embarrassing. For what the room is used for, the feigned sophistication and obvious appeal to ego falls flatter in his eyes than his kimono at the end of the (obviously western-styled) bed. The room smells of the melted green tea ice-cream they had finished their meal with, the half empty bowls of which are both on the floor by the discarded clothes. Sticky and sweet. He takes note of the fabricated scent and is thrilled in the most negative way at the thought of someone purposefully programming "melted green tea ice-cream smell" into the system. Surrounding him and his company are walls completely hidden under extravagant tapestries, and recreations of the most famous historical pieces of Japanese art. Otani Oniji III's fingers splay out towards not the Emperor, but a man who probably thinks himself to be almost as important. The painted Kabuki performer's gesture, though probably intended to be intense and dramatic, only seems to convey a comical expression of disbelief. 'Look at this kid, do his parents know he's here?'

"Chiwa-san," The host of the evening mewls against his company's shoulder. "I enjoy the time we spend together, Chiwa-san."

What he inputs in Persian is instantaneously output as Japanese. Even the mouth shapes are conveyed fluently, and the expressions that accompany each word. It's incredible, it's absolutely incredible. The amount of thought and effort put in to something so completely fucking asinine amazes the boy, and the fact that somebody is paid to make it happen fills him with so much awe that he has to check the mental-transcript of the chat history to catch what 'Chiwa-san' had been saying.

Host 10924:[19/08/43 21:17] Chiwa.

Host 10924:[19/08/47 21:18] I enjoy the time we spend together, Chiwa.

Guest S. U. "Chiwa"[19/08/47 21:18]: You know I do, too, you're a talented young man. You-

Guest S. U. "Chiwa"[19/08/47 21:19] know how to take care of me, better than my wife does. Though that isn't all that difficult.

Chiwa is staring down at the host, waiting for a reaction. The man is awarded a soft chuckle, and he blames lag for the beat of silence.

"I'm glad I make you happy, Chiwa-san. You make me happy, too."

This is part of a script, a collection of pre-rendered phrases that can be executed with a single, simple thought. Even as he slings his bare leg across Chiwa's stomach and hoists himself up to sit across the other man's crotch, he is mentally checked out of the situation. He's been at it for four hours and fifty minutes (according to his GUI's clock), his shift is almost over. He's looking forward to unplugging and digging around in the fridge for something real to eat. But before that can happen he has to casually coerce the session to coming to a natural end. He leans forward, hands placed on either side of Chiwa's stupidly smiling face. He leans down and kisses the man gently, but without the 'passion' from before, when they had knocked their dessert off the table and thrown each-other down on the surface- clawing and screaming. This kiss begins the goodbye.

"Your wife is a very lucky woman, Chiwa-san." the host says, lazily shifting from side to side, grinding himself against the older man's lap. "So lucky to have you,"

Chiwa laughs, his black eyes dilate, mimicking the minute complexities of human interactions. But inside those eyes there is nothing; and no amount of programming will ever overcome that. The dead nothing of pixels that could never convey perfect reality, regardless of how much melted green tea ice-cream smell is generated. Even Chiwa's touch on the younger boy's cheek feels cold and inhuman, though Otosoft would insist its human interface is one-hundred percent true to life. His thumb presses to the boy's lips and he kisses the fake thing with all the sweetness and tenderness he can force into the action.

"She is, Asura." He sighs, letting his arm fall back to the mattress. A small beat of silence as Chiwa's eyes unfocus as he either checks his own clock or responds to a message, betraying his amateur status when it comes to navigating a simulated environment. Asura could have spent the entire session reading a book or watching a movie without his guest ever catching on. "Very lucky, and I should get back to her." His eyes refocus on his geisha themed pleasure. "Though I would love to spend more time with you, even if it meant answering questions about what black-hole I'm emptying my bank account into."

This ends on a big laugh, and Asura laughs like it's the most hilarious thing he's ever heard. Were he not on the clock he probably would have groaned and kicked the wealthy man out of bed. Any minute hostile shifts in his demeanor are, fortunately, compensated for and not translated into the simulation. To Chiwa, his host is the picture of pleasantry. The conversation lulls into a comfortable buffer as Chiwa checks out of the connection, blinking out with a smile and a small peck on the cheek. A chime sounds from every where at once, and Asura experiences two instances of free fall- the first as his body is no longer on top of another and he drops to the now empty bed, and another as the private room is terminated and he's kicked to the lobby. He lands on his feet, naked save for the geisha inspired makeup Chiwa had ordered for their evening together.

Several men and women who had been milling about the common area look up, some are shocked and some simply chuckle. Chiwa always hardquits their sessions, whether it's out of childish disregard for consequences, or some sort of equally childish need to embarrass his favourite whore; Asura isn't sure. For all the boy knows it could be both- though the consequences are minor, and he overcame the embarrassment the first three times he pulled this stunt. The small man runs a hand through his short red hair, dislodging a golden comb which falls to the floor by his bare feet. The comb registers that it's no longer needed and separates into its individual pixels before blinking out of non-existence. He barks a "Go ahead and look," followed by an obscene gesture or two before decency filters realize what happened and render clothes onto him. The patrons avert their eyes, disinterested in him now.

Asura folds his arms across his narrow chest and absent-mindedly calls up his full GUI. The small HUD that is usually found in a small rectangle of space at the corner of one's vision, now expands to fill the whole field. Soft gradients and semi transparent displays pulse with comforting light, each of them lazily bouncing as he sweeps his attention over them. He finds his punchclock application and records the time his session with Chiwa ended. A little early, Asura notes, which is unusual for Chiwa. That man is a known timehogger, who would probably go over time even if his house was on fire and he was about to be cooked alive in his helmet. For the briefest moment Asura wonders if there's something wrong with Chiwa, but immediately remembers that he doesn't care and discontinues that trail of thought.

Closing the punchclock, he brings up his log and records the session's time again, and documents a brief description of the evening. Chiwa is a little grating, a little over enthusiastic, and a little full of himself, but definitely not the worst client he's ever had. If he had the choice, he would probably choose that young Japanese eccentric over the old, disgusting American patriarchs he often gets booked with. Just the thought of some of them, though their simulated avatars don't show their true age, makes Asura sick. Of course it's illegal to misrepresent your physical identity in a simulated environment, but that doesn't stop them from tweaking out wrinkles or entire flaps of tired, ancient flesh. They have the money to subvert those laws, but even if they bring their seventy years down to looking like fifty, or even forty, their age is still obvious in the halting way they move. Like fear of the arthritis that doesn't exist here slows their actions to a painfully awkward and non-erotic speed. Strong, young hands that shake like the enfeebled and liver-spotted hands they actually are. Ancient-dead eyes that look at the whore's soft body like they wish they could reach into it and wear his healthy-young flesh as a suit. A Terrifying the he refuses to linger on.

Asura passively wonders what Chiwa looks like in reality. A man with that sort of money couldn't be the twenty to twenty five years he appears to be. And no business man could possibly sport such a ridiculous hair style, in fact, he's convinced there must be an unwritten rule in the book of professionalism against using that much hair gel. The ginger boy is laughing to himself over that, as his hands navigate the directory of rooms, searching for an empty place to quietly unplug. He finds something that's miraculously empty over on the Eastern European server, which has the added bonus of being closer to home than the Japanese Blue server he uses to meet with clients in the Asian countries. He selects the room named EU Herring r19, and allows the transfer to begin.

The GUI dims until just the opaque message "10924 Transferring" with a loading circle beneath it completely fills his field of vision. It has been a long day for the boy, and he is cutting close to the five-hour safety limit. He's thinking about the time limit when an awful screaming rises from the inhabitants of the lobby. The shock of the sound of pure panic and confusion jolts him, and Asura's physical body, supposedly paralyzed by the helmet, twitches. There is the start of an even worse sound, like the beginning of an explosion, sharp and immediately deafening, but then it stops and Asura opens his eyes to find he's done transferring. He is standing in the middle of a traditional English sitting room, with high-quality chairs and a love seat- all upholstered in muted floral patterns. The wallpaper is tasteful, with vertical strings of pastel coloured violets, it is accented here and there with framed recreations of paintings that fit the theme. Asura absently recognizes "Isises in Monet's Garden" and "Sunflowers" by Van Gogh. It is quiet save for an antique grandfather clock ticking away somewhere behind him. He stands, and the alarm starts its pleasant, but unmistakably urgent chime. 'Please Log Off Now" flashes before his eyes, below it a clock reads:

5:00:3

5:00:4

5:00:5

Asura logs off.


End file.
